Royalty
by Mama Holmes
Summary: Prince!lock AU, full of kid!lock and Johnlock fluff


Once upon a time, there was a far away Kingdom ruled by a King and Queen.

They were courteous, and ruled with kindness and wisdom, but both were old and were well aware that it wouldn't be long before they'd need to pass the throne to their son, the Prince.  
The Prince was even more intelligent than his parents. He was tall and brown haired, but his heart was distant and he would lock himself up in an isolated tower ever since he was a little boy.

Even as a small child, the Prince did not fill the palace with laughter and fuss, despite the fact that there were plenty of children his age.

The King and Queen would open the gates, and allow all children to enter and please the heart of their son. But, none managed to penetrate the walls of ice that blocked him from the world.

One day, the Queen was found to be pregnant again. A little brother to the Prince was born, a baby with intelligent eyes and lush black hair, made of the softest curls. Only the birth of his little brother had allowed a smile to enlighten the Prince's enchanting brown eyes.

He would take his little brother to the length and breadth of the palace. The Prince taught his brother to walk, to run, to kick a ball. The toddler he tagged along barefoot and occasionally fell with nothing but a smile on his face.

He taught the child to speak, to read and write, and discovered his great talent.

Naturally, it was not long until the toddler rose above his brother. He was of sharper mind, and was stronger and wiser than his older brother. But that did not matter to either of them, their age difference was deleted when the little brother began to teach the eldest about things he had found and discovered.

•

The King and Queen were very happy about the strong friendship which grew between the children, and the love they shared. They were no longer concerned about the fact that the brothers failed to connect with any of the other children in the Kingdom. At least they had each other to run together to the other end of the palace, and play alone in one of the hidden chambers.

One day when the king returned home after a journey to one of the neighboring kingdoms, he brought his two beloved sons a present: a large, red-haired dog.

The brothers named him Redbeard, and added him to their adventures around the castle.

The King and Queen loved to hear the voices shushing each other in search of clues to the mysteries they used to solve, such as "Who stole the cookie from the kitchen" or "How many tears does the birthday cake have this time". There were other times where they'd go on secret missions, such as sneaking into the garden and picking one of the flowers up under the nose of the grumpy old gardener, or getting away to the kitchen and ask the cook for a slice of their cake without their nanny noticing, sometimes eve sneaking into their parents' bedroom and taking their father's pipe without getting noticed.

They would always stick it in their mouths in turns- even in Redbeard's mouth- and pretend to smoke.

And then, one day, when six years with their beloved dog were about to be celebrated at the royal family, a sudden illness took over him.

The royal veterinarian used his best medicine, and preformed his greatest efforts, even giving the dog a complicated surgery. But, eventually there was no other choice than to put the poor dog down, to stop Redbeard's suffering.

The two princes cried as the adjusted coffin was buried, and asked the gardener to plant a few red flowers on top of the spot, in memory of their dog, their only friend.

Their friendship wasn't the same since.

The two brothers started fighting over nonsense, blaming their dog's death on each other, even though it wasn't possible for any of them to have caused the illness.

The younger brother had started going outdoors and investigating the palace by himself, discovering more and more fascinating discoveries every day.

He grew more distant from his elder brother, who went back to locking himself in one of the towers, reading his books and dreaming about becoming a great man someday.

Their differences grew up along with them – the younger would close himself in his room for hours upon hours, checking different kinds of soil from the garden under his magnifying glass.

It was his natural curiosity that enabled him to thrive, and he became a brilliant and handsome teenager, quiet but also naturally charismatic.

The elder brother, on the other hand, started spending time down at the kitchen, with the lovely cook that soon became his only friend. She gave him one cake slice after the other, and was satisfied by his delighted smiles.

He loved talking to her, to the only person who really understood him. She would tell him that with a mind and motivation like his – the whole world is waiting for him to conquer; and this had become his dream. He would dream of the moment when he'll inherit the throne and run the kingdom by himself.

Many years had passed and the younger prince started getting bored, alone in the palace.

The problem wasn't being alone, of course – but the fact that he was locked between walls. He felt like a bird in a cage, waiting to be let free.

He was tired of examining the same soil with the same magnifying glass, with the same lighting inside the same room. He was tired of sneaking into the garden and gently picking a single petal from every flower, to soak in different materials from the kitchen to try and get the pigment to react.

He had gained enough knowledge experience in his "lab"; now was the time to test them on the real world.

The Prince had found an isolated corner of the garden, close to the gate, where the soil was rather soft and easier to dig than in the rest of the royal garden.

He kneeled and started digging. His white trousers turned brownish-red almost immediately, catching the colour of the foil.

Day after day went the young prince to his secret corner, digging for an hour or two, and then covering the growing hole with a dry bush.

One day he even found an old plastic skull, which he buried long ago with his older brother in one of their childhood quests, while pretending to be pirates; Captain Lock, Corporal Mike and Redbeard, going on daring quests full of adventures at the castle.

And then, one sunny day, he had reached the other side of the gate.

The Prince jumped to his feet and ran into the palace and into his room, where he put on his disguise: patched old clothes (his parents gave them to him when he wanted to play pretend) and a hat to hide his curls. No one would remotely think he was of royal blood when he was dressed like this.

He hopped for a moment in excitement, grabbed his magnifying glass and headed to the tunnel he had dug – in which his thin body fit perfectly – and crawled through it, then covered the opening again and brushed off the dust from his trousers.

His new life were about to begin.

The Prince walked for a while looking all around, as if trying to memorize the sights that surrounded him.

Yes, he did get out of the palace every once in a while, but a parent was always present, and the trip was done inside a horse-drawn carriage. He was never able to look around the way he wanted to; to feel the road under his feet, to smell the smells of the town, to investigate on his own.

He reached the town square, where a few children his age were playing tag. The prince stared at them longingly for a moment, and then twitched his nose. He's never gotten along with other children. It was bearable when he had his brother, but now even Mycroft let him down.

He turned his back on them and sat down on his knees, glad that his disguise is so genuine-looking. He looked just like one of them.

The young boy started examining one of the flowers especially one elegantly dotted ladybug which climbed up the stalk rather lazily –

"What are you doing?" Came a voice behind him.

Sherlock turned his head. "Who are you?"

The other boy knelt down beside him. "John. And you?"

There raven haired boy was a bit surprised that the kid didn't immediately recognize him, but then remembered his disguise. "I'm Sherlock."

He held out his hand for a formal shake, like he was told to do when meeting a foreigner. John looked surprised for a moment but shook it.

"Children under the age of fourteen don't usually shake hands, especially not kids from the lower cla-" he paused and looked sadly at his clothes. "Well, kids of my kind."

"And how old are you?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the stranger's remark about his status.

"Twelve."

"I'm eleven."

John smiled. "Where do you live? I haven't seen you around before."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Far away. You probably don't know the place."

"Alright, and what about your parents? Maybe they can talk to mine and we'll be able to meet and play? I don't have many friends, you see. Most parents don't like it when their kids play with me..."

Sherlock looked at him in silence for a moment, confused at how someone so nice wouldn't be able to play with the other kids. "I don't have any friends at all," he replied.

Sherlock thought that John looked like the kind of kid he could easily find common ground with: patches were visible on his knees. Several layers of them, actually, in different fading levels. But there were no marks on his hips that could indicate fabric narrowing or extensions, meaning that his trousers hasn't been terribly old. Two to three years, maximum. Therefore – he must have torn them repeatedly at the knee area, which means the kid is an adventurer, just like Sherlock.

"I love playing swords," John said suddenly. "Most mothers don't like it when their kids play swords; they say I'm bad influence. Will your mother forbid playing with me, too?"

Sherlock had to think for a moment. "Possibly."

John looked down in obvious disappointment.

"But she doesn't have to know about it."

John looked up again, into Sherlock's deep blue eyes. He looked skeptic at first, hesitating – but as he saw the truth and solemn in the prince's eyes, a genuine smile started spreading slowly on his lips.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

"So, John… What do you think about mysteries? And pirates?"

Later that evening, Sherlock crawled under the fence again, this time returning home. He covered the tunnel with the dry bush again, grabbed his plastic skull and hugged it tight to his chest.

"Oh, it was such a wonderful day," he whispered to the skull. "I can't wait 'til I can see John again."

•

Sherlock ran upstairs to his room, changing back into the clothes he wore that morning before he his expedition out of the castle walls.

He have planned this temporary escape long enough for him to think of all the small details; Sherlock assumed that his parents would never notice such a minor thing. But Mycroft would probably observe the fact that his clothes are too clean when his hands are covered with foil. He didn't want to risk this whole well planned, long termed plan going down just because of his annoying, rubbish big brother.

He went down to the kitchens when a loud stomach growl reminded him that he hasn't eaten anything since the previous night.

He ran down the stairs, two by two, and got straight into the kitchens, like he used to do when missing supper, being too caught up in an experiment to pay attention to the passing time, which happened a lot.

The cook smiled at him as he entered, and gave him a large, freshly baked chocolate-chip cookie to eat while waiting for his supper.

The cook, a short woman with a large body (her heart as large as her build), asked him what his day has been like.

The Prince beamed at her. "The best day ever."

She turned her had at him and smiled. "Pleased to hear, your highness. Would you like to recount your doings with me, telling me what has made you so happy?"

He opened his mouth in order to answer her, but shut it and shook his head. He didn't want anyone to know about his escape in case he won't be allowed to do it again.

Luckily, she chuckled. "Another secret mission?"

Sherlock exhaled with obvious relief and nodded.

The woman laughed again and took the pot off the fire. She dished the food quickly and served it, smiling proudly when she saw that he ate the whole thing. It was a rare occasion, when it came to him.

He pushed his chair back and turned around, and then stopped himself just a brief moment before exiting the room.

He turned to look at the cook again. "Could you please make me two sandwiches for tomorrow morning?"

The next morning Sherlock jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, still in his nightwear.

He ate his prepared breakfast and grabbed the two well-wrapped sandwiches made by the cook, and then ran back to his room and packed a small bag.

He put a few coins in it, taken from the jar which was in his room ever since he was a little boy, when he told his parents he wanted to observe money closely – and the sandwiches. He changed to his disguise again and covered his curls with the same old hat, his deerstalker.

He crawled through the tunnel again and started walking towards the town square.

John waited for him, just like he said he would, wearing the same clothes he wore the previous day. He smiled as he saw Sherlock's approach and ran towards him. "I thought you wouldn't come."

"Why would you think that?"

"I thought your mother –"

"I meant what I said yesterday, John. She won't know. And besides that, do I look like the kind of person who gives up that easily?"

"No…" John mumbled, "I guess not." His smile slowly widening to a grin.

Sherlock smiled back and took his bag off his shoulders. "I've brought you something."

John's eyes widened as he saw the sandwiches. "Seriously?"

Sherlock nodded.

"E-even the prince himself doesn't eat such magnificent meals."

For a brief moment, Sherlock's eyes widened with fear, but he relaxed as John started laughing, and even joined him with a relieved chuckle. Sherlock handed him one of the sandwiches and was just about to take a bite of his own, when he saw the hunger in John's eyes and the speed of his bites.

He had finished the sandwich within a few brief seconds, and only then seemed to relax.

Sherlock moved his sandwich away from his mouth. "Do you have any siblings?"

"I've got a sister."

Sherlock repacked his uneaten sandwich and handed it to John. "Take this one, give it to her. I'm not that hungry." He had to shove the food into John's hand, as he refused to take it. "Really, I've just eaten this morning. I'm not hungry."

John smiled thankfully. "Come with me, I want you to see the look on Harry's face."

Sherlock wrinkled his eyebrows. "Harry? But you said it was a sister –"

"Harry is short for Harriet."

Sherlock nodded and the two boys walked away.

•

Sherlock's first impression of the house: small.

Even before getting inside the flat he noticed the little space it contains. There were at least three people living there – John has mentioned his mother and sister – and the space looked like it just wasn't enough. On the other hand, he reminded himself, nothing compares to the huge measures of the castle he's grown up in. Any other place would seem terribly cramped compared to it.

John seemed to be a little nervous as he opened the door. He smiled at Sherlock anxiously.

Sherlock looked around and scanned the apartment. An old sofa, shabby and tattered, with two-three-four patches. The upholstery was visible on some spots, through cracks in the disintegrating fabric. He kept scanning. There was an opening at the wall against them, a pathway with no door. He assumed that across from it was the kitchen, the toilet and the bedrooms. He was shocked by the poverty that existed in the kingdom, just under his nose, without him knowing it.

He glanced at John. "May I..?"

John nodded and moved a bit to allow Sherlock to go through the flat door, and then walked through it by himself and closed it. The room they entered was nearly empty. The only furniture was a medium wooden closet at one end of the room, and a three-legged chair at the other end. There was a large wooden toy-sword leaning on the chair. In another room, on the stone floor, there were four mattresses. Two of them were close to each other, and the other two had distance between them.

One bedroom then, four people, deduced Sherlock. John, Harriet and their parents.

John poked his head out of the small window. "Harry!"

The laughter of a group of girls was heard from outside of the house, followed by a pop of a head in the window. "Yes?"

Sherlock assumed she was standing on one of her friends' shoulders, by the height she reached to.

John gave the sandwich to the girl, and her eyes widened.

"Lis, give me a push", she asked and then pulled herself through the window and into the room. She was much taller than John and a little taller than Sherlock. He deduced that she was about three years older than him, only slightly younger than Mycroft.

The girl laughed and brushed the dust off of her trousers – Sherlock marked to himself that they were trousers, and not a skirt, like most girls wore – and got closer to John. She took the sandwich he gave her and opened the paper wrap with great anxiety.

"For me?" when John nodded, she asked: "And what about you?"

"I've had one already."

She nodded, and then took another bite. After she finished eating, she declared: "I'll work when I'm old enough, and then we'll have enough food. Just another year, one more year until I can go…" she mumbled to herself, and then sat down on the mattress. She licked a few crumbs from the paper, and then looked at Sherlock. "Who are you?"

"Um, I'm…"

"A friend of mine," John intervened. "Harry, I want you to meet Sherlock. He's the one who brought us the food."

The girl smiled at him. "Thank you."

Sherlock smiled back.

"Sherlock… what a nice name," she pondered. "It's rare, quite… royal, I'd say. I'm pretty sure I've heard it before, something about school – "

Sherlock didn't know if they'd learned about the royal family at school, but tightened his hat on his curls anyway.

Apparently he'd feared for nothing, his cover was not blown. Harriet just shrugged and laughed, her short, straight hair touching her shoulders for a moment and leaving them again.

Sherlock looked around, at the great meagerness of John's life.

One day he'll take John with him to the palace, he decided. He deserves an opportunity to start a new life.

Maybe when they get to know each other a little more, even though Sherlock has already been able to tell how good his heart was. Two days of contact were a long period of time for him.

He was still hungry, Sherlock deduced by the way John looked at his sister as she ate, and still gave her the extra sandwich.

"I'll be a knight," he heard John say, possibly continuing his sister's sayings. "I'll save the kingdom. I'll protect you all."

Sherlock thought that the title would be very appropriate to John.

"We've talked about this already, Johnny," said Harriet, worriedly. "Only rich people can get knighted. And besides, I don't want you to risk yourself. Don't fight in a war. Real wars can't be won."

"Then...I'll be the doctor who takes care of all the injured knights!" John said decisively, ignoring the first half of his sister's sentence. "I'll be such a good doctor, that the king himself will ask me to see him!"

"It may be his son, actually," Sherlock mumbled.

John looked at his, his eyes shining. "Yes, yes, of course! I'll be the royal doctor, since I'll be so good at it!"

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, I'm sure." He went silent for a few moments. "What about professional education? What about biology classes? Anatomy? Chemistry?"

John looked surprised. "You speak big words. Biology? We learn a bit about our bodies, and I think our teacher once mentioned this word."

"What do you learn in those classes you get?" Sherlock asks curiously. He had no idea what kids in the town were learning.

"You know, names of stuff. Our body is made of bones, muscles, skin…" John lists, counting them off on his fingers.

"And tendons, and veins," Sherlock added.

John smiled. "I guess we'll learn that next week."

Sherlock thought for a moment. He has learned this when he was five years old – but he supposed that there was no point in comparing the poor, elementary education the citizens were taught to his own, royal one.

His school was daily, and John's – weekly. Tutoring – compared to a class full of children. Sherlock couldn't even know if he was really smarter than everyone else, or if he was just fortunate enough to get better education than theirs. He supposed that both answers were correct. But still, he would have preferred the gap to be smaller.

He might ask Mycroft to take care of the subject, one day, when he'll inherit the throne. Supposing that their great rivalry will fade away by then.

"You need some serious education in order to become a proper doctor, John. Anatomy, chemistry… at least the basics. Such studies take time."

"Well, I can't switch schools. What can I do?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. "I can… tutor you, if you want.

A wide smile spread on John's face. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded. "Really."

They saw each other again the next day at the town square. John smiled at him with excitement and ran towards him.

"Can you teach me, then?"

Sherlock smiled, nodded and held the straps of his bag.

"Let's find somewhere quiet, okay?"

"Oh, I know the perfect place." He grabbed Sherlock's hand, making him freeze for a few moments before returning John's grip, hesitatingly. "Let's go."

John's hand was rough and cold, the delicate skin slightly cracked at the frost.

Sherlock realized that the thin shirt with the elbow patches wasn't enough to warm him.

"You're freezing," he whispered. "Are you cold?"

John smiled. "I'm fine."

Sherlock stopped and pulled his hand away from John's."No, you're not." He took off his coat; "Take it, I'm not cold."

John looked at him suspiciously. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded. "Take it."

John wrapped himself in the coat, grateful for its warmth. They exchanged smiles, and then John grabbed Sherlock's hand again, and they started running. The coat flops flew behind John as he ran, almost touching the ground.

They soon reached some sort of a big green grassland. They chose a corner where the grass was tall and fresh and sat there. John was careful not to get the coat dirty.

Sherlock took his bag off his back and pulled something out of it. He handed it to John. "Do you know what this is?"

John silently examined the object for a few moments. He was terrified as the realization hit him eventually. "It's... a skull."

Sherlock smiled and nodded, pleased to find out John was a quick learner. "Not a real one, obviously," he ensured him, "but you're correct. What turned it away?"

"Its mouth. And those holes… are those its eyes?"

Sherlock took the object and turned it around. "This is where the nose is placed, and these are the ears. This one's the jaw, can you tell?" He opened and closed the artificial mouth a couple of times, showing John the exact spot where the bones clenched, and demonstrated it with his own, real one, too.

John seemed to get it.

Sherlock moved on when John nodded. "This is where the brain is placed, see? Surrounded with bones, to protect it." John touched his hair, and Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. Here," He reached and touched John's temple gently. "Those are more fragile, because the bones are softer there, okay? Understood?" John nodded and Sherlock smiled again and continued.

They sat there until the sun set, Sherlock explaining and John listening, fascinated.

Eventually, Sherlock had to leave.

He smiled as John gave him his coat back. "My vacation ends tomorrow. My school continues. " John looked sad, and Sherlock chuckled. "Don't worry, I'll keep visiting you. It'll only happen a few hours later than it used to be, okay?"

They separated and Sherlock went back to the palace, through the tunnel and into his room. He did his routine again: hiding his clothes, taking a shower and changing back to his royal everyday clothes.

Even though it was still early in the evening, the prince headed downstairs and kissed his parents goodnight. As he laid in bed, thoughts of the day – and the days that were to come – were storming through his mind, and he fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

The following days went by the same way; Sherlock teaching and John learning. He would stare at Sherlock with showing admiration and whisper: "Brilliant", "Amazing" or "Fantastic" every time Sherlock would find a clear and creative way to explain to him a term or a process he didn't understand.

One day, John ran towards him excitedly, as he saw Sherlock approaching straight after his school day ended. "The teacher invited my parents for a meeting! She wants to tell them what a great student I am, how I know everything she teaches!"

Sherlock looked alarmed. "Don't tell them I'm the one teaching you, okay?"

"Why not? I'm sure they'd be happy to meet you!"

Sherlock took a step back and tightened his hat on his curls. "Because... I said so. I don't want them to know." They might figure out who he is, and that would ruin everything.

John shrugged. "So you're basically telling me to take all the compliments to myself? That's not fair. None of this would have happened without you."

"I'm sorry, John. I...I prefer to minimize the amount of people knowing that I'm here."

John nodded. "Is it because of your mother?"

"I told you, I don't want her to find out." This wasn't a lie, but also wasn't the exact truth.

John looked disappointed, but agreed, and the two went to 'their place'.

That day's lesson was about the heart, this four-part pump which transforms blood to the every organ in the living body.

John was fascinated and took every word in, as usual. And as usual, like it was at the end of every wonderful day, it was time to leave.

Sherlock got off the ground and put his bag back on his shoulders. John got up too, to walk with him to the town square (which was that farthest place Sherlock let John walk him to), like every other day.

Sherlock's hat slipped off his head and fell down to the grass. John smiled and bent to pick it up, and then put it again on Sherlock's head. When he lowered his hands, they touched Sherlock's cheeks lightly, caressing them.

John's hand found Sherlock's, and their fingers combined. He narrowed the distance between them, making Sherlock's heartbeat to increase and his breath to hitch – and kissed him.

Sherlock made a sound of surprise and closed his eyes, but then pulled back.

He squeezed John's hand. "I really have to go now. I'll be asked where I was."

John looked disappointed. "See you tomorrow?"

Sherlock smiled. "Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

He walked away slowly until their hands separated, then smiled and waved John goodbye, then turned around and ran back to the palace.

Sherlock crawled through the tunnel and covered it with the dry bush.

He shook his palms to clean them from the sand, and was about to inhale deeply – when he noticed some well known faces observing him. The blood drained from his face.

"Did you see that, Mummy? Sherlock always has to let everyone down. He never obeys the rules. Running away from the palace! This is straight up trespass. Good thing that I'm the heir, and not this spoiled toddler."

"That's quite enough, Mycroft," said the Queen with a calm but cold voice, and then turned to her other son. "And you, young man, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Sherlock's eyes started watering. "I… Mummy – "

"You could've been injured, you could've been /kidnapped/, for god's sake! And we wouldn't even know to go and look for you!"

"And it's not the first time, Mummy, he has a special tunnel. He's been planning this for a long ti – "

"I've said /enough/, Mike. You did well, telling me what have happened, but I think it's best if you'd go to your room now."

Mycroft growled something but did as his mother said. Sherlock glared at him until he was out of eyesight.

The Queen approached her son and knelt beside him, then hugged him tight. She took the deerstalker off his head, soothed his black curls then wiped a few of his tears. "My dear child," she said, kissing the top of his head and wiping another tear. "You have no idea how much I've worried!"

"I – I only wanted – " he sniffled – "I wanted to get out of the palace 'cause, 'cause I was getting bored being alone all day, and – and I wanted – "

"I know, love, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll keep you company from now on, okay? We'll have fun together. You won't get bored, I promise. Okay?"

No, it wasn't okay, Sherlock thought to himself. He didn't want to have more time with his mother, he wanted John. Though, he still was very relieved to see his mother reacting to the whole issue so nicely.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you beforehand, Mother, but I was afraid that you'd forbid it."

"I understand."

"So can I leave again tomorrow?"

She studied his face for a moment. "You're eleven."

"Precisely, I'm a big boy now."

She shook her head. "I'm afraid your brother's right, love. It's dangerous to go out there alone." She stroked his head again and stood up, cleaning her behind. "Tomorrow I'll ask the gardener to close the hole you've created, and the whole deal will be over."

Sherlock stared at her. "But – "

" You don't really think I'd let you endanger yourself, would you? You're my child. It's my duty to keep you safe and unharmed until you're mature enough to do so yourself, which you clearly aren't, judging by your behavior."

"But – "

"There there, sweetheart. Dry those tears. The king's sons don't cry. I was wrong, leaving you two alone, that's right, and I'm about to make amends. You have nothing more to seek outside, my child. Now, come inside, I'll ask the cook to fix you some hot cocoa."

Six years has passed.

As the war broke out, thousands of knights from all around the kingdom were recruited to protect it.

The fighting was long and tough, even logistically, and the whole behind-the-scenes activity was Mycroft's doings, since the sudden death of the king and queen.

"Brother dear," he told Sherlock one day, with a large, artificial smile, like he would always wear when talking to his brother. Sherlock tried to pretend he was listening and Mycroft sighed. "I have to go undercover for a few days. Please, try not to utterly destroy the kingdom when I'm gone."

"Stay away from the battlefield. Be safe," Sherlock answered quickly. It wasn't the worry for his brother's sake that moved him, frankly. He was mainly motivated by his unwillingness to take the throne, which would prevent him from being as spontaneous and responsibility-free as he loved to be. And besides, he really didn't want to look after a whole kingdom, when he wasn't even seventeen yet.

Sherlock wasn't too surprised to hear about the attempted murder of his brother. The herald declared that one of the enemy knights had somehow managed to get through the defense lines and pulled out a sword in order to kill the king, but then a warrior jumped before him. The king was taken for examination and medical treatment, and the warrior is being brought to the palace for treatment and a knighthood, for risking his life to save the king.

The prince rolled his eyes at his older brother's stupidity, when the herald said: "Your highness needs to get ready for the ceremony, sire. The knighthood ceremony."

Sherlock frowned. "Me?"

"Yes sire, you're the highest authority when the king is missing."

Right. Sherlock have almost forgotten about this. Or at least, he tried to.

He nodded in great seriousness and got to his room, where he put on a velvet suit that irritated his sensitive skin and put a too-heavy crown on his curls. He looked at his reflection and sighed. He looked like everything he didn't want to be.

When it was time for the ceremony, the injured warrior was already knelt down across from the throne, with a bowed head. He was wearing clean armour trousers, and his chest was bare because of the large, bleeding wound on his left shoulder, which was wrapped in a white cloth. His golden hair was immaculately clean, his skin well oiled and bandages new and clean. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The man was obviously suffering – and yet, the staff have still insisted on the same stupid tidiness-rules. As if it would kill the prince to see a knight that hasn't been well scrubbed beforehand. He preformed the formal service with a facial expression which showed his great boredom, then sat down on the throne until the attendees were all out of the chamber. The warrior was still seated, staring at the floor.

"Get up, the guards are gone. No more need in excessive manners."

The warrior didn't move.

"So, how did you become a warrior? Only knights fight, usually."

The warrior still didn't move, but he answered with a hoarse voice: "I'm a knight-doctor."

This cheered Sherlock up a bit, he started thinking that the warrior had died through the ceremony.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "A knight-doctor? Interesting. And how did you get to medical school?"

"I'm afraid that the King won't be interested in such nonsense, your majesty."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I'm no king, I'm his brother. And I've told you there's no need in excessive manners. Now, tell me."

"It's all thanks to a childhood friend I once had, but then disappeared. Those were the best few months of my life, even though lately I'm starting to think I've imagined the whole thing…" he laughed bitterly, still staring at the ground.

"Go on."

"He'd taught me so much. Thanks to him I got a scholarship meant for outstanding students, then another one, and one more, to the best medical school in the whole kingdom."

Sherlock wrinkled his eyebrows. A certain spark was starting to shine in his eyes.

"Can you imagine? A poor boy like me, in such advanced medical studies! Who would have thought? Then I got here, after being recruited to the fighting."

Sherlock grinned.

"I hope the future will give me more opportunities – if I'll ever recover from this injury, of course."

"And what happened to your desire of becoming the royal doctor, John? Is that a good enough opportunity?" Sherlock asked softly.

The warrior froze. He raised his head slowly. When his eyes finally met Sherlock's, he found that the prince was smiling wildly.

"John."

"Sherlock." He rose to his feet, but the pain and the blood loss made his head spin round and he staggered.

Sherlock waited a few moments for John to stabilize himself. "Alright?"

"I thought that something happened to you."

Silence.

"I thought I did something wrong, I thought you ran away from me."

"I apologize, John. I got caught in the act and couldn't leave the palace again."

"You were the /prince/ this whole time. So /that's/ why your name sounded so familiar, that's what all the secrecy had been for!" He shook his head. "I should've known."

Sherlock nodded sadly. "I wish I weren't the prince, though. It would've made everything easier."

"I still can't believe this. You're the bloody prince. I can't believe I fell in love with – "

Silence, and then: "You… fell in love…?"

"I thought you walked away because of that."

"I never would have done that, John."

John says nothing.

"Right from the moment when I saw where you live, how you live, I knew that you deserve better, that you deserve another chance. A better life. I planned on taking you to the palace with me – just a little boy's fantasy. My parents would never have agreed."

Again, his words were met with silence.

"But now, John, I'm not a child anymore. I'm no longer at my parents' command. I've changed, and so did you."

John looked down.

"And – I still think that you deserve another chance."

John's eyes started tearing, and Sherlock smiled. "So, hello – " he held out his hand for a formal shake – "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Can we start over?"

"John Watson." He shook his hand, the widest smile he's ever smiled playing on his lips.

And as the herald walked in to announce the king's return, none of them had noticed him. The two were too occupied with their kiss.

"Sherlock!" The Prince was barely able to turn around before John's body slammed into his. The surprising extra weight made him stagger.

He grinned. "Let me stand properly, John, get my belongings out of the carriage… I've missed you, too."

Sherlock felt pride crawling warmly into his heart as he looked at John: clean, well shaven and dressed appropriately to his measures. And the look on his face was ever so happy.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him close, then whispered: "I got you something." He took out of the carriage something that looked like a small log, at first, but as soon as John took it into his hands…

It was a wooden sword, like the one that was in John's room when Sherlock first visited him and Harry and brought them the food. He looked up at Sherlock, who smiled softly. "I bought it from a boy at the street. Paid way too much on it."

John laughed. Sherlock's gift had another aspect, if so. There'll be one less hungry family the next night. He hugged the Prince and then got on his tiptoes and kissed him. "Thank you. That's beautiful."

"I wish you could come with me."

John sighed. "I know. I wish I could come, too, more than anything… but the Prince must not be seen with another man. Mycroft's taking enough risks by letting me live here, with you."

Sherlock kissed his forehead. "At least I've got you."

John smiled. "Forever."

"Oh! Thanks for reminding me!" Sherlock bounced and grabbed John's hand again, dragging him up the stairs and into their bedroom. John ran after him, laughing.

The ring was beautiful, decorated with gentle patterns made of pure silver. Several jewels were placed on it, ever so thoughtfully.

John felt himself nodding so fast that he didn't even have time to process the whole thing, in a total loss of senses that made him wonder if he was even awake at all.

The wedding itself was beautiful too, though very small. The guests were only Mycroft, Harriet, John's parents and the only priest in the kingdom that was willing to wed them, but the two didn't care. They weren't aware of the existence of everyone else in the room except for the two of them, anyway. It was the day they became one.

And since that day, they lived happily ever after.


End file.
